Rotten Cologne

“I'm oxygen and he's dying to breathe.” 
― Tahereh Mafi, Shatter Me

You are a pocket of fresh oxygen.
You are worn stone and a wet rock.
You are burnt toast and raw dough,
sunken jelly and milk chocolate.
You are a dark cloud over a rusty truck.

However, you are not a tapestry or the Bible.
You are not an old dog or a senile lizard.
And you are certainly not a depressed janitor
or a broken engine.

It is possible that you are icy waves,
but you are not even remotely similar to crusty eyes.

Looking back through an album of your past
will reveal that you are not a cold wind, smelly poo, or dusty magma.
It also will show that you are far from being a cute hamster.

What the photos put bluntly
is that I am a spark, a wily weasel, and a fatal illness.
I am an interesting game of chess and a ruined book.

The photos also shove into your face
the fact that I am a sad puddle, the yin and yang,
and a piece of salted caramel, covered in dark chocolate.

I am Jupiter humming in orbit
and a Pulsar screeching into the void of space.
And contrary to what you may believe, I am not a pocket of fresh oxygen.
You are a pocket of fresh oxygen, and you will always be filled with warm sunlight.
Though you are fresh, you still carry the musk of worn stone and wet rock,
and in appearance you are a dark cloud over a rusty truck.